Street snakery on a bridge chasing Melancholy

[askefise]

Street snakery on a bridge hustling melancholy

We grab freewill down the street,
rifle her pockets. They are filled with
Moonholes. Whatever the case, we need into greed,
food, rent, deep hunger wailing wildfire syndrome.

& We do it.

The stab is precise, sharp, smooth
and sick, mellfluous poison,
willful execution by moonlight.

With filthy hands, we hand her money back
in regretfuls sequins, sequences.

The real questions emerges.

She laughs and recoils back,
as green as snakes, glossed and
engraved
grave like money can
only unsing.